


Heed My Words

by dee_ayy



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Complete, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, S1Ep9 Sanctuary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:28:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dee_ayy/pseuds/dee_ayy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crane is a mess, both physically and emotionally, and Abbie helps him. Filling in the enormous blank between the pair leaving the haunted house and talking in the archives at the end of S1Ep9, "Sanctuary."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heed My Words

Heed My Words

By dee_ayy

January 8, 2014

 

 

“Heed my words. Do Not Follow Me.”

Abbie Mills wasn’t sure if it was the tone of his voice that jarred her, or the fact that, for the first time, he’d used his considerable height advantage to tower over her, and try to intimidate her.

She wasn’t one to be intimidated, not even by tall Brits bent on vengeance, but it gave her pause, and before she could form a protesting thought, he was gone, and she was left standing in the driveway.

They hadn’t known each other that long, but she’d never seen him like that. He was always in control; passionate, sure, but never a renegade. To be honest, it had never even occurred to her that he had it in him to _be_ like that. And it kind of scared her.   

She had finally accepted that what he’d said was true, that they were the chosen, that they were bound to fight whatever it is they’d have to fight, _together_. Did she want to do that with someone prone to becoming a raging vengeance-fueled lunatic? Could she? But as soon as that thought entered her mind, she remembered why he’d gone off the rails so quickly. And she had to admit, had he dropped a bomb like a previously unknown child on _her,_ she’s pretty sure she’d have gone a little nuts, too. But still. _Together_. They were supposed to be doing this _together._

Just as she had resolved to charge in after him, a timid voice from behind her changed those plans.

“Where did he go?”  Lena. She’d almost forgotten about their victim in all this.

“I don’t know,” Abbie said. Lied, is more like it. She knew all too well where he’d gone, why, and what he planned to do.

“But he’ll be right back.”  

She hoped.

++++

She had Lena safely ensconced back in the car, and was checking her watch for the umpteenth time. It had only been seven minutes. Maybe as little as five. But it felt like forever. Where the hell was he?

She was confident that she could go after Crane and that Miss Gilbert would remain in the car, but something stopped her.

_Heed my words._ That’s what stopped her, she knew. That look in his eyes, that tone in his voice, still chilled her. Still scared her. This was something he felt he had to do himself; that he _wanted_ to do himself. She 'got' that. Probably not something he _should_ do himself, though. She 'got' that, too.

Two more minutes. If he wasn’t out in two minutes, she was going in to get him.

And that’s when the door opened, and he was back.

“My God.” The words escaped her mouth before she could even stop herself.

Crane was covered in blood. Drenched was more like it. His face, his arms, his clothes, Abbie couldn’t see one inch of him that wasn’t covered. But he was moving with ease, her studied eyes noted. He didn’t appear injured beyond the scratches she’d seen before he’d gone back inside.

“I should like to go home now,” he said simply, and he climbed into the car. Abbie ran around the vehicle, climbed behind the wheel, and drove off as fast as she could.

Getting away from the Godforsaken place seemed like a really good idea.

But she wasn’t far down the road when she pulled over to get a better look at her partner.

“Crane,” she asked tentatively. “Are you all right?”

Her question was met with silence. Crane sat perfectly still, his hands folded on his lap, his spine still impossibly straight, staring forward out the window. Abbie couldn’t even tell if he’d heard her, so she asked again.

“Crane?” she queried sharply.

An almost imperceptible flinch was his only response; yes, he’d heard her, she knew.

But he didn’t respond.

He was usually loquacious to the point of annoyance. Loquacious--that’s a “Crane word,” she thought. She’d been finding herself doing that more and more: challenging her own vocabulary and trying to come up with what she called “Crane words” when something simpler, like “talkative,” was perfectly sufficient. But now he was completely and utterly silent. And that, too, scared her.

Not knowing what else to do, she threw the car back into gear, and drove on.

++++

As Abbie continued the brief drive into town, she weighed her options. She had to deliver Lena Gilbert to safety. That was her first priority, she knew. The young woman was still wrapped in Crane’s coat, huddling quietly in the back seat.

“Miss Gilbert, are you hurt?” Abbie asked. “Did that thing injure you?”

“No,” the girl offered. “I’m fine. I just want a hot bath, a warm bed, and to forget this whole day ever happened, to be honest.”

Fair enough. But if Abbie took the time to get Lena set up in a hotel, she had no idea what would happen to the guy sitting next to her. She glanced over at Crane, and noticed a slight tremor in his primly clasped hands. That made her decision.

A few minutes later she was pulling into the parking lot of the police station. She needed help, and only one person could provide it.

“Miss Gilbert,” she instructed, “you come with me.” Then she turned to Crane. “And YOU,” she ordered, “stay here. Don’t move. Understand?”

He sighed, and she took that as acquiescence.

“I’ll be right back.”

For good measure, she locked him in the car, thinking maybe that would be just enough to discourage him from going wandering in his current state, should the notion enter his mind.

++++

“Captain Irving!”

Irving turned and strode toward Abbie and Lena as soon as he saw them. Without a word, he ushered them into his office.

“Lena Gilbert, I presume?” he said to the young woman.

“Lena,” Abbie addressed to her charge, momentarily ignoring her superior. “This is Captain Irving. He’s going to take you from here.” Irving’s incredulously raised eyebrow was not lost on the police officer as she continued, “Tell him what happened. Tell him everything. It’s okay, you can.”

“Lieutenant?” Irving’s tone was demanding an explanation.

“Captain, it’s Crane. I have to go. I’ll explain everything later. Or Lena can tell you, and I’ll fill in the blanks later. But I have to go.”

“MILLS!” he was shouting. But she was already halfway out the door.

++++

When she got back to the car Crane had finally moved. He was now sitting on his right hip, facing the passenger window slightly. His arms were crossed tightly across his chest with his hands tucked firmly under his arms, and his eyes were closed. She wondered if maybe he’d fallen asleep.

But no, she knew he was awake when his eyes immediately opened upon hearing the beep of the remote door unlock. He didn’t change his position, so when she climbed back behind the wheel, Abbie was looking at her partner’s back.

“You OK?” she asked him. A huff of air was her only response.

“Seriously, Crane, talk to me.”

“I’d like to go home, Lieutenant.”

“I know, you told me already. But we’re not moving until you look at me.” He turned his head and just looked at her silently. God, he was a stubborn. The look he gave her was absolutely unreadable. Usually his face was charmingly expressive and easy to read. Not now. Not tonight. Not after whatever had happened in that house.

She reached over and put her hand on his arm. The tremor she’d noticed earlier had elevated to full-fledged shivering. No wonder he’d crossed his arms so tightly.

“Jesus, Crane, you’re shaking like a leaf.” She pulled his right hand out, and held it. Despite having been tucked under his arm for the last however-many minutes, it was ice cold.

“I’m tempted to take you straight to the ER, you know,” she said as she pulled out of the parking lot. At his puzzled expression she explained. “Emergency Room. The hospital.” He was still maddeningly silent, but he visibly blanched at the word ‘hospital.’ “But don’t worry. I won’t. Can’t imagine walking you in there looking like you do.” At that, Crane looked at his bloodied hands and arms as if he was seeing them for the very first time.

He said nothing, of course, so she met his silence with her own, and just drove.

++++

Crane finally found his voice when Abbie pulled her SUV not up to Crane’s cabin in the woods, but rather to her own front door.

“Lieutenant,” he sighed out. He sounded exhausted.

“Zip it, Crane. Let’s go.”

“But,”

“No buts.”

“I implore you, Miss Mills, take me home.”

“Not a chance. You need a shower, not that tub at the cabin. And if there’s any hope of saving those clothes, they need a washing machine, not some rock by the lake or whatever you’ve been doing to clean them. Let’s GO.” To emphasize her point, Abbie climbed out of the vehicle and waited.

After taking a slightly too-long moment alone in the car (weighing his options and coming up short, she figured), Ichabod Crane slowly alighted from the SUV, and followed her to the front door.

“Lose the boots,” she instructed. “Don’t want to ruin my carpets.” Crane quickly slipped them from his feet, but his flinch when he moved his left shoulder was not lost on Abbie. “Give them to me,” she ordered, and he quietly obeyed. As she unlocked her front door, the orders continued. “Straight into the shower, understand?” More silence. “And I’m gonna need to look at those scratches. They have to hurt.”

As they entered the apartment, Jenny came out of her room, alerted by the noise. “So, take down any cool,” she started before catching sight of Crane. “Demons?” she finished. “What the hell happened to _him_?” 

“Later, Jenny,” Abbie promised as she propelled Crane toward the bathroom with a slight push to the small of his back, throwing the boots onto the linoleum kitchen floor as she passed.

Once in the bathroom, Abbie continued the instructions. “As hot water as you can stand, for as long as you can stand it, understand? I think you’re in shock.” At the slightly puzzled expression that she knew meant he didn’t know what she was talking about, she continued. “Shock. A physical reaction to physical or emotional trauma, or in your case, both. The shivering, the cold. Shock.”

“I assure you, lieutenant,” he said quietly, “I am fine.”

“Yeah, sure you are. And I’m,” but Abbie couldn’t finish that thought before Jenny was knocking on the doorjamb. Just as well--whatever she said, Crane surely wouldn’t have understood. She tried to temper the colloquialisms that she knew would confuse him, but sometimes they just came out.

“What can I do?” her sister asked quietly.

“There’s a plastic bag on the floor of my closet. Get it.” Jenny left, and almost immediately returned with the item, quietly, and wisely, slipping away as soon as she did.

“There are some clothes you can wear in here,” she told Crane, suddenly glad she’d never returned the sweats Luke had left at her place like she’d been intending to do for weeks. “Put your clothes in the bag and leave them by the door. I’ll get them while you’re in the shower and put them in the wash.”

“Really, Miss Mills, I am perfectly capable,” Ichabod started to protest.

“Crane! Just STOP!” Her regret was immediate when she saw him physically recoil from her harsh tone.  But honestly, what was his problem? Pride? Sure, he had that in spades, she knew. But right now he was just being stupid.

She took a deep, calming breath. “Just let me help you, will you?” she finished, much more kindly.

It must have worked, as Crane bowed his head slightly in assent and started to untie his shirt.

“Don’t put the shirt on after your shower. I want to get a look at those scratches. Oh, and use the shampoo, will you?” She knew he never used the stuff she’d bought him for the cabin. She’d have smelled it if he did, and she never had.

“I’ll be outside if you need me,” she told him, knowing he wouldn’t call for her, no matter what.

++++

Abbie was reading the label on the bucket of Oxy-Clean, wondering the proper amount to use on clothes drenched in tree blood, when Jenny came up beside her.

“You going to tell me what happened?” she asked.

“We went to an old manor house looking for a missing girl. We found her, and more. Some sort of, I don’t know, demon made of roots or something.”

“What happened to Ichy?” Abbie scowled when Jenny used her most-favorite, and Crane’s most-hated, nickname.

“He went one-on-one with that thing.”

“Yeah, no kidding, but that’s just another day at the office. What aren’t you telling me?”

“He learned. . . .” Abbie paused, unsure how much to say. Did she have any right to divulge this information? No, she decided, she didn’t. “He learned something about his past. It upset him.”

“What did he learn?”

“It’s really not my place to say, Jenny. Ask Crane. If he wants to tell you, he will.”

With that, she turned her full attention back to the washing machine, effectively ending the conversation. 

++++

The clothes were washing, the shower was still running, and Abbie finally had a second to take a breath. Or so she thought. Just as she was about to collapse on her sofa for five minutes, the doorbell rang.

Jenny was nowhere to be found, of course, so the lieutenant answered the door herself, and found Captain Irving on the threshold.

He held up Crane’s coat by way of greeting. “Figured he’d want this back,” is all he said.

Abbie took the coat. “Yeah, he will. Thanks.” She didn’t invite him inside, and she wasn’t sure why.

“He okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “He’s in the shower.”

“Lena said he was pretty messed up.”

“No, he’s okay. Minor injuries only.” Like with Jenny, she wasn’t going to tell him about the emotional turmoil. Not her place. “The demon he took down; it ‘bled,’ for lack of a better word. Crane got covered in it. But he’s okay.” She hoped.

She leaned on the door frame, hopefully making it clear that an invitation inside wasn’t forthcoming. “What about Lena Gilbert? She okay?”

“Oh yeah. Gave me a Cliff’s Notes version of her statement, made a call, and within twenty minutes a helicopter was flying her out of here.”

Abbie chuckled. Of course. “Well, thanks for this,” she said, holding up Crane’s coat. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

Irving wasn’t dumb; he knew what she was doing. “So you’re not going to tell me what really happened?”

“Not tonight, Captain, okay? I don’t think he’s gonna be up for it. Maybe tomorrow.”

“At Thanksgiving dinner?” Frank asked incredulously.

Right. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving. She just looked at her boss and shrugged. “Maybe,” she offered. “But not tonight.”

Captain Irving sighed, clearly perturbed. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

He turned and walked away as Abbie pondered that “tomorrow.” She closed the door and turned back toward her apartment. “Jenny,” she called out. “Did you invite Captain Irving over for Thanksgiving dinner?”

++++

The shower had stopped running a while ago, and his clothes were in the dryer, but still Crane hadn’t come out of the bathroom. Abbie was wondering if she should check on him, but couldn’t decide where that line between helping and hovering was located. She put a kettle on the stove for tea, figuring a cup of something hot would be a good excuse to knock on the door.

She looked into her living room at her sister, sitting quietly in an arm chair, just watching her. Yeah, the atmosphere in here was unsettling, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.

Abbie sighed with relief when she finally heard the sound of the bathroom door opening. She looked pointedly at Jenny, and cocked her head toward the bedrooms. Jenny got the message and stood. “You look better,” she told Crane as she passed by and quietly closed the door to her room behind her.

His hair was wet, the sweat pants were comically short, leaving his ankles and half his calves exposed, he’d ignored her and had put on the tee shirt, and he still looked a little pale, but despite all that, he definitely looked better.

“Sit down,” she called to him. “I’m making tea.”

She was surprised when he followed her voice and sat down at the kitchen table. She figured he’d avoid her, not seek her out.

“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I can make you something.” Crane just shook his head. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Mere scratches,” he told her.

Abbie took a minute to run into the bathroom and return with her shoe box full of first aid supplies. “Let me see.”

“Really, that’s not necessary.”

“ _Craaaane,_ ” she warned.

The kettle whistled, and she busied herself with making two cups of tea while he removed Luke’s tee shirt. In Crane’s mug she put three sugars, figuring his blood sugar was probably bottoming out by now.

She slid the mug into his hands, and inspected Crane’s injuries. He wasn’t lying; they were just scratches on his left shoulder and the left side of his abdomen. But only one of them was deep, and he had clearly done an excellent job cleaning them.

Nevertheless, she uncapped the antibiotic cream, and started applying it to the open wounds. “We have all sorts of things to prevent infections these days,” she told him, holding up the tube of ointment when he flinched at the application. “I imagine in your day more people died from infections than their actual wounds.”

“Indeed,” Crane admitted. “If the musket ball didn’t kill you instantly, it was usually the ensuing infection that claimed your life.”

“Yeah, well, not any more.” She finished with the cream, and started fitting gauze pads over the wounds, taping them in place. “There,” she declared, “you’ll be good as new in no time.”

Crane’s lips smiled at that, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Thank you,” is all he said as he put the shirt back on. She saw him shiver. “You’re still cold?” she asked. “Drink your tea.”

She pulled the throw off the back of her sofa, and fitted it around his shoulders as he put the mug to his lips. He practically spit the tea back into the cup.

“What on earth?” he declared.

“Sugar, Crane, lots of it. It’ll help with the shock. Drink it.”

Her partner pulled the blanket close around his shoulders and managed another sip. “In my day,” he professed, “I believe the same result was achieved with a healthy dose of rum.”

Abbie grinned. “I’m sure it was. But I don’t have any rum, so sugar it is.”

“Shame,” Ichabod offered as he took another sip, “I’m rather fond of rum.”

++++

They’d moved into the living room, and Crane had his impossibly long fingers wrapped around another cup of tea, this one without sugar, when Abbie decided it was time.

“So, you ready to talk about it?” she asked.

He studied her over the brim of his mug. It still unnerved her, the way he could bore into you with his piercing blue eyes when he wanted to. “There is nothing to say, lieutenant,” he finally allowed. “The creature is no more.”

“I’d gathered as much,” Abbie said. “I mean about everything else. About Katrina. About your child.”

Crane took a sip of tea.

“No,” is all he said after a very long time. “I do not think I am ready to speak of that.”

Abbie sighed. She figured.

“Fair enough. But I have something to tell you, about that.” This caught his interest, and he lowered the tea to his lap. “When I found that way out? I didn’t just happen to find it. I was shown it. I saw Grace Dixon leading Katrina and your baby through that door. Crane, they got away. I saw it.”

Ichabod’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and a small smile played across his lips. “That is most welcome news,” he told her. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I would have told you sooner, but . . . other things took precedence until now. Which brings me to the second thing we need to talk about.” He tilted his head slightly, listening.  “What happened tonight? It can’t happen again.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You. Going off half-cocked the way you did tonight.” She knew he had to know what “half-cocked” meant. She also knew this probably wasn’t the best time to go into this—he still looked pale and was still wrapping himself in her blanket—but she wasn’t one to put things off. It only gets harder the longer you wait; she’d learned that lesson long ago.

“Look, Crane, you’ve gotten me on board with this whole capital-W ‘Witness’ thing, right?” He nodded almost imperceptibly. “And you yourself, more than once, have pointed out that this is a path we have to walk together, correct?” Another nod.

“So what the hell was tonight, then?” He looked like he was starting to speak, but she wasn’t done, so she forged ahead. 

“'Heed my words, do not follow me?’ Are you kidding me? Need I remind you that I’m the one with the gun? You could have gotten yourself killed in there!”

Now she knew he was gearing up to say something, to protest. But nope, not his turn.

“I know, I know, that thing went after your family. I _get_ it. You wanted payback. Vengeance. I get it. But there’s a bigger picture here—something _else_ you have gladly reminded me repeatedly.  If something had happened to you . . . .”

If something had happened to him, what? What did she want to say? 

“I don’t know what. . . .”

She stopped, suddenly out of steam, and looked up at her partner. He was just watching her, his mouth slightly agape.

“Crane,” she finally confessed with a sigh, “you scared the crap out of me tonight.”

The man dropped his head, in an action Abbie could only interpret as contrition. Finally, he spoke, without looking up. “Lieutenant, I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she told him. “Just heed _my_ words, and promise you’ll never do anything like that again. We’re in this together, you and me.”

“You have my word.”

“Good.”

++++

Crane had objected vociferously to spending the night in her home, and even more so to sleeping in her “chambers” rather than on the sofa. But it was just practical. She could stretch out on the sofa with room to spare. He, on the other hand, needed at least six more inches.

Whether he was sleeping behind the closed bedroom door, she had no idea. But Abbie herself was finding sleep elusive, so instead she found herself mending Crane’s torn shirt. He’d been through hell today, and she knew how much these ridiculous clothes meant to him. If she could make the shirt at least wearable until they figured out what to do about a new one, then she wanted to do that for him.

“You okay?” It was Jenny, who came around and curled herself onto the other end of the sofa.

Abbie looked up from her work. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t listening, honest, but it seemed a little . . . tense . . . out here for a while.”

“No, it’s fine. At least I think it’s fine. We just had a couple of things we needed to straighten out. Ground rules kind of things.”

“He’s a very proud man,” her sister offered.

Abbie snorted in laughter. “Don’t I know it.”

“And you’re a very proud woman. Bound to be friction from time to time.”

Abbie smiled ruefully. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“He okay?”

“I think so.” She held up the shirt, displaying all the tears for her sister. “Couple of battle wounds. Nothing serious.”

“Wasn’t talking about that.”

Abbie shrugged. “I know. But it’s not my tale to tell. And he doesn’t want to talk about it. Not even with me.”

“Fair enough,” Jenny allowed. “Must be bad, though, if you’re doing his mending for him.” Abbie shrugged again, and kept sewing. “Well, I have to be up at six to put the turkey in the oven, so I’m going back to bed.  Hope you guys are doing better in the morning.”

Abbie looked up at the clock as her sister left. It was three in the morning.

++++

Kitchen noises roused the sleeping woman. She’d finished her mending around four, and figured she’d get no sleep at all before Jenny got up, so she was surprised that she'd succumbed.

“Mornin’ sleepyhead,” Jenny called from the kitchen when Abbie sat up.

“What time is it?”

“Almost 9:30. You were really out. I’ve been making a racket in here.”

“Wow. Didn’t realize it was so late. Crane up?”

“Haven’t seen him. You want coffee?”

“God yes,” Abbie begged as she stood. But the minute she turned the corner into her small hallway, her heart sank. She’d left Crane’s clothes folded outside the bedroom door, and they were gone. Sure, he could be dressed and still in the bedroom, but she knew he wouldn’t be.

She knocked anyway. “Crane?” Nothing. “Crane, you in there?” When her words were again met with silence, she added “I’m coming in.” She was absolutely sure she was talking to herself, but she also knew his sense of decorum would be upset if he was inside and she just barged in.

She opened the door, and was right. The bed was made, and he was gone. She stepped into the room, and found an envelope leaning against the pillow, with her name, “Miss Mills,” written in his florid script. She idly wondered for a second where he’d found the Holiday Inn stationery, but just figured she’d shoved it in her desk drawer years ago.

> My Dear Miss Mills,
> 
> I must bestow my most sincere thanks for your kind ministrations last night, as well as my humblest apologies for frightening you with my actions. You must know that this was never my intent. Nor is it ever my intent to show you anything but the utmost regard and respect.
> 
> I shall endeavor to behave more admirably in the future, you have my promise. Until then, I remain,
> 
> Your humble servant,
> 
> Ichabod Crane
> 
> PS You are a most excellent seamstress, another kindness for which I am in your debt.

Crap, crap, crap. Why had she indulged in her “no time like the present” nonsense last night? Selfish, that’s what that had been. Now not only was he out there reeling from the knowledge of having had a child he didn’t know about, he might also be feeling guilty because of her.

“He’s gone?” Jenny asked from the doorway, two cups of coffee in her hands.

“Yeah, he left.” Abbie looked up at her sister. “What time did you get up?”

“About 6:30.”

That meant he had at least a three-hour head start. He could be anywhere by now, even on foot. And if he didn’t want to be found? She knew he wouldn’t be found.

Nevertheless, she knew she had to find him.

It was Thanksgiving, after all.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Some of what I think could be the best moments happen between-the-scenes on TV shows, and I hate that. This story is an attempt to fill in one of those huge blanks, answering all of the "How did . . . ?" questions while remaining true to the canon of the episode. I did my best. 
> 
> I haven't written fan fiction in well over 10 years, but here I am, all thanks to this nutty show that I love beyond reason. Thanks to msk1024 for inspiring me write again, though it is true I started it when I got her to watch.


End file.
